The train that restored my faith in the romance of rail travel

"The toilet is charming, you have to lift up a lock and it folds out. It’s divine,” said Patricius, the cabin attendant, topping up my glass of prosecco and swelling with pride. Later, as I perched on the loo lid for a selfie, I was smitten by the brass fittings and 15 layers of varnish on the mahogany walls.

"Polished and prompting curious stares, the Twenties’ carriages embodied the elegance and thrill of travel in the movies"

In truth, over the course of 80 rail journeys, my faith in the romance of train travel had begun to wane: my companions snored, got drunk, and threw food on the floor, took off smelly shoes, hogged luggage racks, and looked more like Russell Grant than Cary Grant. While this had its own comic charm, the idea of romance was as creaky as the carriages I slept in – but my two days on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express changed all that.

Amid the grey, grubby trains at Venezia Santa Lucia station stood a blue-and-gold beauty at platform four. Polished and prompting curious stares, the Twenties’ carriages embodied the elegance and thrill of travel in the movies. Handing over my evening dress and rucksack, I was escorted to my carpeted suite where I wound down the wooden window and stretched out on a cushioned banquette, breathing in the scent of fresh flowers on my table.

As the train eased out of the station I lay back and watched the Venetian waters twinkle past in the sunshine. No strangers would be entering my cabin other than Paolo – in a black tailcoat with yellow trimming – to offer a choice of two lunch sittings. As we travelled from Italy to Austria, through Switzerland to France, I wouldn’t have to shuffle up, move my bags or stuff cotton in my ears. I was free to read, doze or listen to the pianist play Moon River in the bar until we drew in to Calais.

That night, dolled up in a Fifties rose-pink dress, wearing matching pearls, I cupped my hands to the window of the Etoile du Nord dining car and watched the almost-blue snow of the Austrian Alps sweep down into a valley where chalets glowed like a cluster of golden orbs. In the reflection from the table lamp I observed men in black ties clink glasses with ladies wearing elbow gloves and flapper headbands, and waiters deftly catching bottles and carafes as the train curved around the mountainside.

There are few more glorious way to arrive at - or depart - Venice

A perfectly rehearsed performance played around me and I felt like the star of the show. This was the rail-fan’s fantasy brought to life: to dine on foie gras lasagne with sweet chicken oysters; to sleep in a butler-prepared bunk; to close eyes in Geneva and wake in Paris. The museum-like train, with its René Lalique décor was no more than a hologram, and a recreation of a time now gone. But we were all in on the ruse, and I had my fellow passengers to thank for playing their roles for one night only and keeping the romance of train travel alive.